Poems

Front matter

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S. G. COBB, BOOK PRINTER, TIMES BUILDING. 1863.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863,

Mother

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The world-worn spirit, wildly tossed by fortune's treacherous gale, Sees, in the storm, the friends on whom its hopes were anchored fail; And, seeking rest, as to the ark turned the wave-weary dove, From smiling masks and hollow hearts turns to a mother's love.

And, pausing o'er the cruel scorn of faithless friends to grieve, Cries, "Mother! mother! yours the heart that never could deceive! Oh, but to lay this aching head, childlike, upon your breast, And, sobbing out my griefs, once more sink in your arms to rest!"

The outlaw, bold and hard of heart, with dark and sin-stained soul, O'er which the fiercely surging waves of passion madly roll, Though he the great All-Father's love and mercy fails to see, Can ne'er forget the childish prayer lisped at his mother's knee.

While struggling on with weary feet to reach the cloudless land, Though wrong, deceit, and dark distrust around us ever stand,

Thoughts of a mother's love lift up the head in anguish bowed, And shine out through life's darkest woes like sunshine from a cloud.

Her prayers, though long the mute, cold lips have lain beneath the sod, Will ever seem like guiding stars to lead us home to God; They follow us through joy and woe,—they reach o'er land and wave; The first beside the cradle breathed, the last beside the grave.

Compared with hers, all other love is like an April day, That folds its smiles and frowns at last in cold, gray mists away. As boundless as the universe,—pure as the heaven above,— Enduring as eternity,—such is a Mother's Love!

Come Back Again

And, sighing, turns to her early youth, When all the world wore the light of truth; And, as her tears fall like autumn rain, Cries: Happy childhood, come back again!

Stern manhood, too, when life's noon is past, A lingering look oft will backward cast To his glad boyhood, its hopes and fears, To his young manhood's more clouded years, To those he loved ere his heart grew cold, 'And left true friends for the sake of gold; Wealth brings not joy, and he cries in vain: Friends of my youth, oh, come back again!

See, robed in splendor, the stately dame Who gave her hand for a noble name; She pines surrounded by pomp and glare; Her heart is not, and can ne'er be there,— A vanished form through her dreams will glide, A heart she crushed in her cruel pride, And sorrow wrings forth that cry of pain: Oh, glad, free girlhood, come back again!

The wretch whose heart is bowed down by crime, Whose locks are whitened before their time, E'en he can think of a long-ago, When his young soul was as mountain snow,— And memory pictures the old roof-tree Where oft he bent at his mother's knee;

He cries: Alas! were her prayers in vain; Pure heart of childhood, come back again!

Oh, far more lovely in childhood's hours' Are the green fields and sweet wildwood flowers, Than all the glory that meets our gaze Or gilds our pathway in after days. The guileless vision to childhood given Tints all it sees with the hues of heaven, And when they vanish, that cry of pain Bursts from the soul: Oh, come back again!

The human heart is a restless thing, Forever roaming on Fancy's wing, Or turning back to the days gone by, That memory holds to its longing eye; And, let the present be e'er so bright, The past is veiled in a misty light That makes it brighter, and still in vain The heart must cry: Oh, come back again!

Ruins

Ruins of strong feudal castles, That have braved war's fiercest rage, Bow their heads like stern old warriors, Battle-scarred and crushed with age.

Ruins, too, of grand old temples, Round whose shrines in ancient days Priest and warrior, king and peasant Bent the knee in prayer and praise; Sanctified by saintly worship, They should stand though others fall; But the hand of the destroyer, Time, is sweeping over all.

Sad it is to gaze upon them,— Castle, cloister, shrine, and dome,— And to think that earth's glories Must at last to ruin come; That with wrecks the passing ages All the universe must fill; But each day we see around us Ruins grander, sadder still,—

Fallen columns, crumbling arches In the temple of the soul, That should stand in primal beauty While unnumbered ages roll; Glorious souls, for bliss created, Turning from their heavenward way, From a Father's love and mercy, Bow them down to gods of clay.

Wrecks of minds whose soaring pinions Ne'er should touch earth's dust and mold, Bending from the gates of glory Down to worship gods of gold. Mournful as it is to witness Shrine and palace crumbling low, Wrecks of God's fair human temples Are the saddest earth can show.

But as round each moldering palace Close the sheltering ivy creeps, So the vine of prayer, upreaching, Still from utter ruin keeps The soul's temple, till its fragments By our tears be cleansed from stain, When the Architect almighty Shall rebuild them all again.

Ecce Homo

While the mob, by fury blinded, Loudly clamored for his blood.

Ecce Homo! At the pillar, Scourged by Pilate's stern command, Those He loved and blessed and toiled for, Void of pity, round Him stand; No complaining sound escapes Him, Neither murmurs, groans, nor sighs, But a world of bitter anguish Looks from His forgiving eyes.

Ecce Homo! Robed in purple, By His blood more deeply dyed; Crowned with thorns, a reed His sceptre, While the cruel Jews deride; Bound and blindfold, thus they smite Him, In mock-homage bending low, Saying, "Tell us, King of Israel, Who is he that struck the blow?"

Ecce Homo! Mark how mildly Bears He threat and scoff and blow, While the tears of Israel's daughters For His wrongs in torrents flow; See the crimson drops outgushing O'er His sacred temples fall, While the crowd, untouched by pity, For His death more loudly call.

Ecce Homo! Aye, behold Him, See His look of silent woe, As the past and future ages Out before His vision go, As He sees what countless numbers Cast aside the cross and crown,— Sees His life-bloed, shed to save them, Trod by pride and passion down.

Ecce Homo! We behold Him Bruised and bleeding, faint and lone, Chosen friends and loved disciples In the hour of trial gone; Through thy streets, O fated Zion, Fiercer shouts of vengeance ring, Lord of all, by all forsaken, Earth disowns and slays her King.

Ecce Homo! Lord of glory, We behold Thee scorned, reviled; May thy sadly mournful story Make us humble, patient, mild; Bind our hearts to Thee forever, That we may earth's pomps lay down, And at last in endless glory See Thee wear Thy thornless crown.

Erin's Lost and Dead

Unscared the wild birds nestle where festal boards were spread, And flit among the silent halls of Erin's noble dead.

Where are the proud, the noble, who trod her verdant plains, Bold hearts that never rested beneath oppression's chains? Where'er the war-cry "Freedom" was raised, they nobly bled,— The stainless soul of honor marked Erin's valiant dead.

Gaunt famine crushed down thousands upon the sacred sod Where golden plenty flourished beneath the smile of God; A hard and cruel step-dame deprived the poor of bread, And drained the very life-blood of Erin's lost and dead.

Like Niobe, she mourneth her fallen household band, Her arm too weak to shield them, or stay the slayer's hand; A fearful weight of sorrow has bowed her queenly head, And tears rain down in silence above her loved and dead.

Oh, mournful mother, Erin! thy heart is grieving sore To see thy children scattered on many a foreign shore! But countless sainted heros, who for thy weal have bled, Still slumber in thy bosom: they are not lost, though dead!

Not lost,—for from their ashes a flame shall yet arise To light the march of Freedom along our western skies, And call the wandering exile to rest his weary head Where bloom unfading laurels o'er Erin's glorious dead.

May Time, that bringeth changes, as seasons roll away, Restore again to Erin the light of Freedom's day! But, oh! the beams of Freedom, on vale and mountain shed, Can ne'er bring back to Erin her loved, her lost, and dead.

Snow

Heaven-born snow-flakes, the pure soul, like thee, Flits through the world, but from earth-stains is free, Brightens and blesses where'er it may go,— Beautifies earth like the soft, falling snow.

Gently from heaven, its birthplace, it comes, Folds its white pinions around earthly homes, Seems for a moment to sleep in the sod, Thence on the sunbeams of love soars to God.

Dream-Life

For the rosy glow of distance And the force of Time's resistance Blend, and weave bright robes of beauty To array the future years.

Youth arrives,—and still he glances Onward, onward, for he fancies That his hand will soon be potent As the magic lamp of old; And he builds an airy palace, In which pleasure's glowing chalice May be freely quaffed when manhood Has the scroll of life unrolled.

But at last youth's lordly castle Vanishes, with serf and vassal; To the sterner eye of manhood Life presents a darker page; All youth's rosy hopes have faded; On life's journey, tired and jaded, Still he hopefully looks forward To the calm repose of age.

Now the snows of age descending On his brow, foretell the ending Of life's trials, joys and sorrows, And in vain he seeks for rest; To the years no more returning

He looks back with wistful yearning, Then hope guides his vision upward To the mansions of the blest.

Thus in dreams we wander ever, Living in the present never, But with longing eye still looking To the future or the past, Till our heart-strings chill and shiver As the waves of death's cold river Put an end to all our dreaming, And the real comes at last.

Were our lightest wishes granted, All for which our hearts e'er panted, We would still sigh after something, Discontented with our lot; Still we fancy it but seeming When we are what we've been dreaming, And unceasingly endeavor To become what we are not.

Let us strive to grasp the real While we picture the ideal, And the while the brain is dreaming Toil with strong, untiring hand; Vain are all our dreams of beauty, If we shrink from life's stern duty,— For the thoughts that bring not action Are but letters traced on sand.

The Flight into Egypt

All living things seemed resting in that still midnight hour When a lost world's Redeemer fled from his creature's power.

The exiles soon saw fading from view their native land; At last their weary footsteps pressed Egypt's burning sand; The fiery sun above them his fiercest rays poured down, And evening brought no shelter from midnight's gloomy frown.

Sometimes a lonely palm-tree on the wild desert's breast Offered the weary pilgrims a shaded spot of rest; And when fierce thirst assailed them, perchance a bitter pool Yielded its brackish waters, their parching lips to cool.

'T is said that on this journey, in a wild, gloomy den, The hiding-place of robbers, of reckless, outlawed men, One night they found a shelter, and rude lips kindly gave The Wanderers a welcome into the bandits' cave.

The chieftain's wife gazed kindly upon the Holy Child, And viewed the fair young Mother with pitying glance and mild,— Surely some dire misfortune had driven forth from home These frail and helpless pilgrims o'er the wide world to roam.

A large tear slowly gathered in that wild woman's eye; Her own loved babe was resting in quiet slumber nigh; Ah, well might bitter sorrow on her sad face appear— Foul leprosy had tainted the form to her so dear.

Soon Mary asked for water, and reverently arose To bathe the Holy Infant, then hushed Him to repose; And to the mourning woman His young face seemed so bright She fancied they were angels who lodged with her that night.

A strange hope thrilled her bosom. She took her stricken one And washed him in the water where Mary bathed her Son,

When, lo! with joy she saw him freed from disease and pain— The water touched by Jesus had cleansed her child from stain.

Years passed: the child to boyhood, the boy to manhood grew, And, though he loved his mother, he joined the robber crew Again for him she sorrows, and as her sad tears flow She thinks upon the pilgrims she sheltered long ago.

Wild, reckless, fierce and daring, the youthful robber's hand Wrought many a deed of terror upon the desert sand; Though in his heart some feeling of good had lingered still, It lay all crushed and buried by a dense weight of ill.

The noonday sun is gilding the hills of Palestine, And, bathed in golden radiance, the temple's white walls shine: Jerusalem, what meaneth that fierce, tumultuous yell Resounding through thy arches like shout of fiends from hell?

Alas! those execrations that through thy streets now ring Proclaim that blind Judea denies and slays her King; And He, the long-expected, who came to set her free, On Calvary hangs extended upon the crimson tree.

Earth to her King has given a cruel, thorny crown, And o'er His aching forehead the warm, bright drops roll down; Fierce, brutal men stand round Him, all purpled by His gore,— Each drop enough to ransom a thousand worlds and more.

As thus our blessed Saviour in agony and pain Pours out His life-blood freely to cleanse our souls from stain, Forgetful of His sufferings, he turns a pitying eye Upon the wretched robbers who with Him are to die.

One answers with reviling, and scorns His pitying word; The other looks more kindly upon our suffering Lord, And then his thoughts turn sadly back to his wasted years, His sinless, happy childhood, his mother's prayers and tears.

But in the form beside him, the pallid, blood-stained face, The limbs all bruised and mangled, no human eye could trace The fair, sweet babe, so radiant with beauty's rosy glow, Who journeyed through the desert so many years ago.

He sees the blows and insults; the fiendish howls and jeers Of the bloodthirsty rabble are ringing in his ears; He hears the sweet forgiveness our dying Lord bestows, And feels that none but Jesus could bless such cruel foes.

He prays that stainless Victim his soul from sin to free: "When Thou art in Thy kingdom, O Lord, remember me;" Then sees His glance of mercy, and hears His pale lips say, "My son, thou shalt be with me in Paradise today."

Where like God's smile so lately the glorious sunbeams shone, All now is gloom and horror; earth seems to rock and moan,

And startled Nature trembles and veils her eyes in dread, And wrapped in robes of mourning weeps her Creator dead.

Soon from the side of Jesus, pierced by a cruel spear, Flow precious drops of healing upon the robber near, And the repentant sinner cleansed by that crimson wave Is little leprous Dimas of the wild robbers' cave.

The Olden Time

As sadly out on the evening bell The knell of a dead day rings, Some high resolve may strive to call From the heart-harp's quivering strings A stanza of our grand life-hymn In a strain of power sublime, But the notes are drowned in the tears that fall At the thought of the olden time.

The friends we loved in the olden time, Although, severed far and wide By Fortune's gales, our life-boats drift Over Time's resistless tide, Seem near us still as some joyous laugh Rings out like a silvery chime; For the hearts were light and the laughter gay That we loved in the olden time.

When the pain and pleasure, storm and strife And glory of earth are o'er, When the requiem of a dead world rings On the far eternal shore, In the anthem grand of a higher life May we join in strians sublime With the friends who made the hours so bright In the happy olden time.

To an Ivy-Leaf

While through the thin and scattered tufts morn's rosy sunbeams play, Like childhood's fingers wandering 'mong a grandsire's locks of gray.

Around its walls once more I hear the wild waves sob and moan, Chanting a solemn requiem o'er power and glory gone; And see the ivy's circling arms its crumbling towers entwine, As if to veil the mournfulness of grandeur in decline.

Oh! faded leaf, I prize thee yet, though beautiful no more; Thy kindred tendrils freshly wave upon my native shore; They wrap in Nature's drapery her fallen shrines and fanes, As if they loved each stately wreck of splendor that remains.

Though snows have wreathed the mountain's brow, and summer breezes fanned, Since thou hast met the morning's smile that gilds my native land, Thou bringest thoughts of days and scenes I never can forget; For this, O pallid ivy-leaf, I dearly love thee yet.

A Mother's Plaint

And letters from my Willie came like messengers of light,— Their cheering words were sunbeams sent to make my lone days bright.

One woeful day a sombre box was brought unto our door, And on its gloomy lid was traced the name of Willie Moore, And with it came a messenger the bitter tale to tell How 'neath the folds of Freedom's flag my Willie fought and fell.

And there he lay, my only one; as 'peaceful seemed his rest As when in his sweet childhood hours he slumbered on my breast; The scathing tempest-blast of death from which we vainly flee, Crushed the young sapling in its strength and spared the withered tree.

My boy, it seemed that sleep, not death, had closed his clear blue eye, I could not feel that life had fled, I had not seen him die; I saw no scar, no mark of pain disturbed the placid face; A curl fell o'er his brow and hid the fatal bullet's trace.

But when I heard the cold, damp earth upon his coffin fall, Around my startled heart was flung the gloom of sorrow's pall: The dull sound of the falling clods his footfalls seemed to be, Reëchoed from the threshold of the dim eternity.

My home is lone and cheerless now, my heart is sadder still,— The void within a mother's heart this world has naught to fill. O'er some the surging waves of woe with fiercer fury roll, The grief of others strikes the heart, a mother's wrings the soul.

Alas! before the crimson scourge that blights our land is o'er, How many a mother's heart will bleed, but mine can bleed no more. It rests within my Willie's grave and when its throbbings cease, I hope to meet him in a land of everlasting peace.

Burial of Isabella of Castile

Stern warriors bow their heads in grief, For oft that still, slight form With hope and courage nerved their hearts Amid the battle's storm.

Cold is the open, generous hand Of her who freely gave Her jewels rare to trace a path Across the trackless wave,— She in whose name the flag of Spain Beside the cross unfurled Its silken folds—the first to wave O'er the new western world.

No glittering pomp of royal state, No proud and vain display, Accompanies that noble form To its cold house of clay, For she whose grandly regal soul Has to its Maker fled, Was self-denying in her life, And still would be though dead.

As slow the sad procession goes In silence through the land, The poor pour forth their prayers and tears For her whose kindly hand Was ever open in their need; For she in life had been To Spain a guardian-spirit bright, A mother and a queen.

O'er Andalusia's fair green vales The tempest's black wings sweep, And wildly beat on her who lies In death's cold, dreamless sleep; The mountain-torrents, thundering down, Go seething o'er the plain, Where the mad waters hissing roll Around that funeral train.

No sunbeam cheers their path by day, No star by night appears,— It seems that Nature's saddened eyes Are blinded by her tears, For over all the land is flung A pall of darkest gloom, While she who was its life and light Is carried to the tomb.

At last Alhambra's crimson towers 'Gainst the gray sky are seen; Where, throned 'mid dark green orange groves, Granada sits a queen, And she whose fortitude and faith, Whose hope and courage high Regained it from the Moslem foe, Comes in its dust to lie.

The dark-plumed cavaliers move on With solemn pace and slow, And as through the old Moorish gates All mournfully they go,

They think of how they entered them In triumph years before; Alas! that she they followed then Should lead them nevermore!

High o'er the ancient Moslem towers The gleaming cross is seen; Sadly the marble halls beneath Receive their crownless Queen; The solemn requiem is sung, And in the cloister's shade, With incense, prayer and taper's gleam, The royal dust is laid.

Religion mourns her brightest gem, Her shield, forever gone; Spain weeps her strength, her star of hope, Her purest spirit flown; All Christendom laments for her Now to the grave consigned, Who gave her every thought and deed To God and to her kind.

Cold are the glittering tears that fall For perishing renown, Save when the good as well as great Unto the dust go down; And 'midst the crowned and sceptred dead The eye will seek in vain One loved so well, so truly mourned, As Isabel of Spain.

Long Ago

Must their last breath be wearied With sighs of bitter woe For bright hopes dead and buried Down in the long ago?

Alas! bright days, too early Goes down your noonday sun; The night of death enshrouds us Before our work is done; And many a path is thorny Where roses now might blow, Had we not idly wasted The days of long ago.

Like scentless, withered flowers Upon a streamlet cast, Do aimless lives drift downward And sink into the past; They leave no vacant places, For them no tear-drops flow,— They pass unknown, forgotten, Down to the long ago.

Then, as our days are passing, And we are passing too, Let earth's vain joys hide never That bright land from our view Where from the bounteous Giver All happiness shall flow, And grief and death come never As in the long ago.

Washington's Farewell to his Army

They thought of all his love and care, his patience sorely tried, Of how he shared their wants and woes, and with them death defied.

They looked back to that fearful night when 'mid the storm he stood Beside the icy Delaware, to guide them o'er its flood,— Back to red fields where, thick as leaves upon an Autumn day, The tawny savage warriors and British foemen lay.

They thought of many a cheerless camp where lay the sick and dead, Where oft that stately form was bent o'er many a sufferer's bed; Well had he won the deathless love of all that patriot band— Their friend and guide, their nation's hope, the saviour of their land.

He, too, saw all they had endured to break their country's chains— Their naked footprints stamped in blood on Jersey's frozen plains, The gloomy huts at Valley Forge, where winter's icy breath Froze many a brave heart's crimson flow, chained many an arm in death.

And, looking on their war-thinned ranks, he sighed for those who fell; It stirred the depths of his great heart to say the word "Farewell;" He saw strong men, who, facing death, had never thought of fear, Dash from their scarred and sun-browned cheeks the quickly gushing tear.

He stood in the receding boat, his noble brow laid bare, And the wild fingers of the breeze tossing his silv'ry hair, While to his trusty followers, the sternly tried and true, Whose sad eyes watched him from the shore, he waved a last adieu.

Earth shows no laureled conqueror so truly great as he Who laid the sword and power aside when once his land was free,— Who calmly sought his quiet home When Freedom's fight was won, While with one voice the Nation cried: "God bless our Washington!"

The Forests of the West

Still the forests rise defiant Of the tempest-laden years, Like a host of giant warriors Resting on their battle spears.

Here the monarch oaks of ages Seem the tempest's wrath to scorn, Emblems of the patriot heroes Of our country's natal morn; For the arms and hearts whose prowess Britain's slavish fetters broke, Were as sturdy and unyielding As the giant forest oak.

Here, midst tempest, toil and danger, Was young Freedom's spirit nursed, Till the splendor of her glory O'er the wondering nations burst; Roaming o'er the world a stranger, Here she found a place of rest,— Brave hands reared her lofty temple Mid the forests of the West.

Though the hands that built that temple Now are folded in the grave, Freedom lives, and still is worshipped Where the forest-monarchs wave;

Still the brave, free, chainless spirit That aroused that patriot band, Animates the vigorous toilers Of the noble Western land.

Grand old woods, sublime and solemn, Proudly spurning time's decay, Watchers of the toils and triumphs Of our country's early day, May your broad, green aisles forever Be by Freedom's children trod, And your soil be ever sacred Unto Liberty and God.

A Voice from Exile

The broken links of mem'ry now Are bound into a chain Whose golden windings draw my heart Across the Western main, Back to my own blue native hills, By ocean's breezes fanned— Back to my childhood's home and thee, My worshipped native land.

The spectres of the dead years rise, And, in their misty track, From ocean waves and scattered graves My loved ones, too, come back; Our homestead's ancient walls once more Resound with song and mirth— But strangers gather now at eve Round our once happy hearth.

Though dwelling in a distant land— The fair land of the free— Each breeze that sweeps thy mountains bears A dirge-like wail to me; How can thy children's hearts be glad On Freedom's smiling plains, While thou art groaning, Motherland, Beneath thy load of chains?

The bitter wrongs that bow thy head And tinge thy cheek with shame,

Are graven on thy children's hearts In lines of quenchless flame. On other nations' battle-fields Thy life-blood gushes free: Is there no resurrection, then, From living death for thee?

Oh, hapless mother of a race Of helots, born in chains That rankle in the heart, and freeze Life's current in the veins, Up!—cast the shackles from thy limbs— In power majestic rise, Unfettered as proud Freedom's bird, Whose dark wing cleaves the skies!

Thy voice is heard, but heeded not; Why stoop thy rights to crave? Does Liberty her smiles bestow On weak or coward slave? The voices of thy martyred dead Rise from the blood-stained sod; They bid thee bow the knee no more Save to the throne of God.

Now Tyranny, on crumbling throne, In abject terror quakes, And Revolution's mighty hand The earth's foundation shakes;

No nation tamely bows the neck Or bends the conquered knee— Why shouldst thou crawl? Thy fitting place Is 'mongst the brave and free!

The clarion voice of Liberty Rings over land and main— 'Wake, Erin, 'wake! and never sleep In slavery again! Oh, while thou'rt trampled in the dust, Deprived of Freedom's light, A fettered slave, the exile's heart May well be sad to-night.

Saint Agnes

Though Rome sits robed in beauty, And sunshine gilds her domes, A fearful tempest rages Around her hearths and homes.

Within the crowded Forum A slight and childish form, With fearless heart, serenely Awaits the coming storm; The gazing crowd she sees not, Nor heeds the judge's frown; Her 'raptured eye can only Behold the martyr's crown, And see the glorious victims Whose steps have gone before, And traced in blood a pathway To the eternal shore.

The guileless grace of childhood Yet lingers on her brow; Unbound her glossy tresses In sunny wavelets flow, Shrouding the frail, slight figure, As with a golden veil, And with a halo framing The face so calm and pale; The crowd look on in silence, And seem to hold their breath To see the fair child-martyr Stand face to face with death.

The judge on the young victim Looks down with pitying eye: It grieves us, Lady Agnes, To sentence thee to die; Forsake this Christ who leaves thee To such a dreadful doom, And bow in adoration Before the gods of Rome; One single act of worship, And we will loose thy bands, And give thee life and freedom With all thy wealth and lands."

One only Lord and Saviour I know and worship now; To blind and senseless idols My soul can never bow. To Thee, O blessed Jesus, Who canst redeem and save, Who oped the gates of glory, And triumphed o'er the grave,— To Thee my life I offer, In steadfast faith I come; Accept my humble tribute, And call Thy servant home."

With clear eyes raised to Heaven, She kneels in silent prayer; She hears the songs of angels Resounding through the air,

And sees the heavenly city, Whose gold gates open stand, Revealing to her vision The glorious martyr band That she is soon to follow, While radiant spirits come Down from the gates of glory To bear her safely home.

Upon the blood-stained marble She meekly bows her head; To her the spot is holy— There countless saints have bled; She thinks how Jesus suffered, Mocked, scourged, and crucified; How, loving and forgiving, Blessing His foes, He died; To die for Him is heaven, No terror can she feel: A moment more, above her Bright gleams the flashing steel.